One of the problems
I wrestle with personally since opening my eyes to the realities of political
and natural life is the following conundrum: can western civilization BE saved?

After reading The Decline of the West (1922) by Oswald Spengler, I accepted his
theory as sound that civilizations are like living things: they are born, have
a peak period, and an eventual lingering decline and death. If we accept his
theorem then we are looking at being locked into irreversible decline
regardless of what we do, so that even if we weren’t facing outsider invasion
via immigration, falling birth rates due to feminism, and our host of other
problems, we would merely be declining in some other fashion. The West as a
concept and as a civilization, is doomed. One way or another.

Maybe I should draw a graph, but intelligent people don't need one. All they need is a word to the wise and that word is: "When the death toll is only in the hundreds, PR matters a hell of a lot." So, it is for Israel in its latest messy little border war in Gaza.

The fact is that whatever happens in the next few days and weeks, at some point in the future the Jews of Israel are going to wake up to peace and possibly bird song, but Gaza with its teeming slums and festering loathing for them will still be there, breathing the same air – and so will the Palestinians on the West Bank, and the millions of Palestinians camped around the borders of Israel (or Palestine as they will continue to call it).

After his election defeat in the recent European elections, Nick Griffin has resigned as Chairman of the BNP; and the party's National Organiser, a former County Durham teacher, Adam Walker, has replaced him.

As a sop to his ego, Griffin has reportedly become "Party President." Apparently, this was all agreed at a meeting of the party's executive body last weekend, much to the disgust of some grassroots members upset at the leadership's failure to consult what remains of the party's dwindling membership.

You may or may not be old enough to remember when the Internet was a new thing, but for a long time, web pages were not considered “credible” sources. If you were a serious person trying to make a serious point, you cited books, academic journals, established magazines and venerable old newspapers.

Whenever a major sporting event comes along, the progressive media always has a desired narrative. So it was with the recent World Cup, where it was widely hoped that a racially mixed team would win, proving once again the all-conquering power of 'diversity.' Alas, when Brazil crashed to its 1-7 defeat against Germany in the semi-final, the desired narrative took a severe beating and started coughing up blood.

In its own way, the German team was also quite diverse, but not in the same flashy, frizzy manner as Brazil. Among its blond Aryan ranks it also boasted a Turk (Ozil), a half-Tunisian (Khedira), and even a Black player – well, half-black (Boateng). But overall the team looked White, and, worse than that, they played with Teutonic precision rather than the carefree carnival spirit expected from a truly ‘diverse’ team; in short, unsuitable poster boys for the progressive fantasy.

Human reality is separate from cosmic reality because human minds are closed systems. If the human does not force his mind to perceive the external and make his analytical decisions based on that, his mind will form a feedback loop where it merely echoes back to itself as 'truth' that which it wishes to be true.

In The Republic, Plato recounts a debate between Socrates and other Greeks. One holds that justice is found through power alone, and another holds that justice lies in not harming others at all. Socrates finds a happy medium: "good to the good, and bad to the bad," and explores that as the basis for a better morality.

George Orwell, in 1984, described a chaotic world of perpetual warfare: a large part of the planet was forever fought over and constantly changing hands, with the lives of the inhabitants assigned minimal value.

Ethnic chauvinism is an
irritating and at times repulsive trait, but ethnomasochism is a thoroughly
contemptible affliction. If the former tendency runs the risk of dehumanizing
those outside of one’s own group, and ignoring crucial commonalities due to the
horseblinding effect that accompanies the inculcation of extreme prejudice, its
antithetical opposite proclivity leads a person to feel unreasonably righteous
by hating his own kind. That is, it causes one to feel morally upright by
embracing treachery, a trait
universally regarded as morally loathsome in nearly any other context.

China—Too Big and Non-White to Oppose

I’m going to do something radical and completely out of character; I’m going to cut Zionist Jews and Israel some slack! You heard me right. Is it because I’ve come to embrace organized Jewry and Israel? Is it because I somehow believe that Israel is in fact not guilty of its various crimes against humanity? No and no. I’m doing it because liberal Zionists are actually correct when they insist that the far left and various Social Justice Warriors are hypocrites when they single out Israel for special condemnation. I guess the blind squirrel can find the nut every now and then.

How exactly does a man find his calling in life? Is it through constant soul-searching? A near-death experience? A certain feeling that just comes from deep inside? Who knows? All I know is that Bradley Smith’s A Personal History of Moral Decay is about precisely this. While on the surface it presents itself as Smith’s personal memoirs, a collection of vignettes spanning nearly fifty years of his life, the real story is about his lifelong search for purpose.

And while Smith did find his muse, it took him well into middle age to get there.

And yes, this is the same Bradley Smith who’s made a career out of Holocaust revisionism, the same guy who wrote The Man Who Saw His Own Liver. It’s not spoiling too much to state that Smith chose challenging the mainstream Holocaust narrative as his purpose in life. Smith himself doesn’t even write about it too much; the bulk of the book is concerned with his tumultuous journey there.

Alternative Right co-editor and author Andy Nowicki is joined by Takimag editor and author Ann Sterzinger to discuss the joys and perils of independent publishing and free inquiry in an age of rampant illiteracy and crushing conformity. Ann and Andy talk about Ann's latest venture, Hopeless Books, where the second edition of Andy's book The Doctor and the Heretic has just been published.

There are only two factors that unite Brazil – the Portuguese language and their pride in their 'national' football ("soccer") team. Almost everything else – regional rivalries, racial differences, economic inequalities, and diverse climate zones – drives the nation apart. Even Catholicism, since the inception of Liberation Theology, has become more of a divisive force. It is interesting, therefore, to consider what effect their drubbing at the hands of Germany in the World Cup semi-finals will have on the nation.

It is also interesting to ponder on the cultural semantics of an overtly German team – even one that isn't quite pure itself – crushing a team that is a kind of poster child for the great multiracial hybrid future that we are all supposed to stroll willingly towards. Alas the main talisman of this mongrelized team, Neymar, a mixed race player with naturally kinky hair who has straightened and dyed his hair blond, couldn't make the game due to his injury in Brazil's quarter-final victory over Colombia – a somewhat darker version of themselves.

“'If this is grace,' he muttered through clenched teeth, 'then
why does it feel like Hell?'”～ “Tears
of the Damned: A Counterfactual Tale”

“Turning a page in Huxley you say, ‘There but for the grace of God…’ — and suddenly you wonder whether Divine Grace has intervened in time.” ～ Charles J. Rolo, The World of Aldous Huxley, “Introduction”

No sooner has the world had the chance to digest The Columbine Pilgrim (fat chance, that)
than Andy Nowicki, like a demented TV cooking contestant, pops up with this
poisonous little amuse-bouche.

A government which represents a regime, meaning not to serve its purpose as government for the existing term but with the calling to transform the entire society, rules not so much through brutal force, but through the control of the public debate and of certain key terms.

Of course, most regimes sugarcoat their hard ideology with nice-sounding words and catch-phrases, so that their ideological goals will sound innocent and benign. In contemporary South Africa, the African National Congress (ANC), which has ruled South Africa since 1994, boasts of having freed the black majority of apartheid and white minority oppression. The ANC's representatives continually regurgitate a variety of such words that have been stripped of their original meaning, in order to sell a left-wing ideology. In his famous book 1984, George Orwell used the name “newspeak” for such ideologically-twisted words, which frequently mean the very opposite of what they seem to mean. Here are a few of the ANC’s most popular “newspeak” words:

The word alpha is bandied about on every far flung corner of the manosphere and PUA universe. The alpha is emulated as the paragon of manliness where every ‘beta’ and ‘omega’ strives to be an alpha, but for all the wrong reasons as we shall see. Who is an Alpha male? According to many in the PUA community (whom I do not affiliate with), an alpha is the archetypal masculine man who is cool, confident, and is irresistible to women. Men want to be alphas so that they can have access to an inexhaustible supply of poon. But is this all there is to it? I tend to believe that Alphas have certain character traits that are innate or that one acquires with years of disciplined self improvement. For the purpose of this post, I’m going to rely on cultural references (TV/Books) as it makes the portrait easier to sketch.

Our problem is that our people have lost the reason to unite and stay together. This often happens with majority groups, unlike the envious minorities who want to take power from them. Because we already have the power, we have turned to other things for our quest in life, things which are more specific to the individual, things that divide us and weaken us.

The ultimate consequences of our present trajectory are extremely negative, but it is hard to get people to recognize this simply by pointing out negatives. These are obscured by the ambiguities of the future and human psychological traits, like time preference habits, which focus on immediate positives at the expense of distant negatives.

In order to move people you need to recognize this simple rule:people respond more to visions of a possible future that is good than to warnings about the negative results of present day actions. Quite simply, you have to show them an ideal of what is better, because, by the principle of competition, people will pick whatever offers them a better way of life.

The Life & Writings of Julius Evola

If the industrious man, through taking action,Does not succeed, he should not be blamed for that –He still perceives the truth.～The Sauptikaparvan of the Mahābhārata (2,16)

If we could select a single aspect by which to define Julius Evola, it would have been his desire to transcend the ordinary and the world of the profane. It was characterized by a thirst for the Absolute, which the Germans call mehr als leben – “more than living.” This idea of transcending worldly existence colours not only his ideas and philosophy, it is also evident throughout his life which reads like a litany of successes. During the earlier years Evola excelled at whatever he chose to apply himself to: his talents were evident in the field of literature, for which he would be best remembered, and also in the arts and occult circles.

The following piece was originally published in 2013; it then disappeared ignominiously, along with many other documents, when the Christmas Day Purge took place; it is hereby snatched from oblivion, in all of its morose splendor, and brought again to your attention, by unpopular lack of demand. - A.N.

BABY, YOU’RE NO FIREWORK

In the echoing cadences of popular music, the alienated soul finds both the temporary buzz of entrancement and the all-too-familiar drone of his own spiraling hollowness. Hungering and thirsting for a sense of connection, for the comforting if illusory sensation that he is in fact, not alone, he instead most often detects sure affirmation of his utter isolation. Yet the hope always remains as insistent as the hooks of the songs which at first inexplicably captivate and compel his jaded heart. He may just be a thoroughgoing hopeless romantic beneath it all, but that doesn’t stop him from perpetually detecting the bullshit of romance.

Such a one has heard so many “Girl, you’re so beautiful” songs that his heart has turned to stone. He has been subjected to such a plethora of “Man, you’re such a man and oooh you sure know how to love me right” tunes that he’s been afflicted with a permanent case of the dry heaves. That men and women are suckers and fools, each in his or her own way vulnerable to blatantly vacuous praise if it flatters their egos, never ceases to fill him with revulsion. Yet he is even more possessed by bouts of self-loathing when he considers his own occasional weakness for the very same lines. After all, as They Might Be Giants once observed, “A woman’s voice on the radio can convince you you’re in love.” And this is certainly true, for, to quote Buddy Holly, “It’s so easy to fall in love”... and if you think you’re in love, then you pretty much are, sucker.

But much as he may detest the endless iterations on the standard “inane love song” which in one way or another has long dominated the radio airwaves, these are not what truly makes the alienated soul grind his teeth with rage and mutter fiercely fearsome oaths to himself under his breath. Rather, what really chafes his sensibility is not the phony love song, but the phony “encouragement song.”

Let’s face it: there are a lot of sad, lonely, desperate people in our world. The alienated soul knows this well enough, for he is one such person. But being one of the lonely ought never be confused with claiming solidarity with the lonely. The alienated soul is too proud to associate himself with any group, though he isn’t too proud to own his patheticism. He knows that he is despised and forgotten, an underground man, of little significance or regard, more an amusement to others than a legitimate force with which to be reckoned, a minor threat at best. But at the same time, he’ll take no psychological handouts, thank you very much. He knows that he’s on his own, and much as he may wish it were different, he’ll stay the course for the duration, serving out his time as a dutiful, purposeful prisoner, cultivating his garden and honing his craft all the while, shunning overt bitterness. If life is disappointing, complaining about it does no good; best to cultivate a stoical outlook and resolvedly accept your meager portion.

Yet how the pop singers of the world appear to fret over his lot in life! “All the lonely people, where do they all come from…./Where do they all belong?” wondered Paul McCartney a half-century ago. McCartney may have earnestly cared about the plight of the spiritually homeless, but it is clear that he had no proper empathy for them; rather, as is clear from his lyrics, the very existence of lonely people plainly bewildered him; poor Paul just didn’t know what to do with such folk, could neither grapple with their obscure origins nor figure out where to put them. While Eleanor Rigby is a song possessed of a certain forlorn power, this is largely due to the sheer brutality of the speaker’s candid observations of despair and futility concerning the destitute Eleanor and her well-meaning but hapless would-be rehabilitator Father McKenzie: “No one comes near… What does he care?... No one was saved.”

Most singers, however, aren’t simply content to reflect on what sad cases we lonely people are. Instead, they intend to give us sorry losers a pep talk, by assuring us that we’re not really losers… we’re winners who just don’t know it yet! Their assertions would be laughable—after all, they don’t know the people for whom they’re ostensibly so concerned—were it not for the grating effrontery at the heart of their absurd gesture of effusive compassion. They don’t want to “help”; they merely want to give the appearance of wanting to help, in order to score PR points in showing what caring, down-to-earth celebrities they truly are. “Everybody hurts sometimes, but hold on,” REM instructed us. (Yeah, thanks, you whiney-voiced faux-eccentric Micheal Stipe; now please shove off, faggot.)

Most recently came Katy Perry’s Firework, a song in which the doe-eyed Christian girl-gone-bad breathily assures the listener of his infinite worth. Feeling down? Chin up, chap: all you have to do is “ignite the light and let it shine,” and you’ll “own the night like the Fourth of July, 'cause baby, you're a firework!"

What makes it infuriating, of course, is that we find ourselves wanting to believe her. Our quest to attain self-possessed stoical resolve founders for a second, for a minute, or for even longer, just because some pretty girl with a pretty voice tells us that things can be better if we only “believe in ourselves,” and “go for it.” The effort made to achieve dignity and balance is thus disrupted by the most exceedingly banal of platitudes, packaged in such a way as to appeal to our propensity to yearn for joy. We are undone by our hopefulness, and rendered abject schmucks. Our undying, seemingly un-killable hope fuels our rage, and in turn, somewhat paradoxically, enhances our despair.

"Aww, I thought I was a firework! Bummer..."

WISTFUL THINKING

In my last dispatch, I discussed the psychological conundrum of the alienated soul vis a vis the common themes of relentlessly banal, hideously ubiquitous popular music, themes which are alienating enough to reinforce his deep-seated awareness of psychic dislocation, while at the same time somehow retaining enough allure to leave him helpless before his proclivity to succumb to the very wishful (and wistful) thinking which so often leads him to despise himself.

Such a one finds himself exhorted to feel good about himself (recall “Baby, you’re a firework!”) by his rulers, those plastic soulless phantoms who he’s quite aware couldn’t care less about him, even if they did know him from Adam, which of course they don’t. He recognizes that their pretense of compassion is absurd, an insolent slap to his face and a brazen insult to his intelligence, yet finds he cannot help but be sent at times into pangs of delusional delectation at the thought—“Wouldn’t it be nice?”—of being recognized, affirmed, and befriended by the likes of Katy Perry, et al.

"It says nothing to me about my life"

What such a one as he finds so vexing is the indomitable insistence of the inherent, ingrained human impulse towards desiring companionship, appreciation, and popularity, a propensity which runs directly counter to his need to preserve and safeguard his dignity and authenticity, in isolation if necessary. Awareness of this repugnant weakness is a particularly devastating blow to the alienated soul, who sets great store in maintaining his sense of pride, regardless of whether or not the world accepts him.

Sadly, stoicism—his favored palliative philosophical approach—isn’t in his genes, and doesn’t appear to run in his blood. No matter how hard he tries, he still finds that he wants to be respected, admired, and loved by those who now only ignore and—at best—condescend to him. He wants not only to be great, but also to be recognized for his ostensible greatness. Indeed, it is with no shortage of horror that he apprehends just how far he truly stands from his ideal self. It is sickening just how much he relies on affirmation from others to give himself a boost. Appalling indeed how a woman’s voice on the radio is all it takes to make him hope and yearn for the impossible, to the detriment of everything he holds dear.

Yes, he knows this much: he is wretched and contemptible. Yet an endlessly escalating cycle of self-loathing can’t be his final destination. Even while in the midst of riding his dolorously shame spiral, he well-enough recognizes that his self-generated anguish represents a dead end, one from which he must eventually rebound. And after all, he has always acknowledged his patheticism, even though it has been wrapped in a kind of pride. If the world sees him as a loser, he likes to think he wears his loserhood as a badge of honor. He can accept rejection; it’s little more than he’s ever known. But can he accept the fact that he still yearns for acceptance from his haughty tormentors, even while enduring the merciless slings and arrows of their scorn? Can he embrace his patheticism, even to the extent of acknowledging his own inescapable folly, in addition to the folly of the world?

Not bloody likely, I’m afraid. For where would that leave him? If he can’t fall back on his rebellion against the world, what does he have? If, beneath it all, he only yearns to be celebrated by the powers-that-be who now ignore him or hold him in contempt, then how can he face himself, much less the world?

Instead, the alienated soul finds himself yearning to “fix” himself. Maybe there is some lever or button that he can flip or push within his soul, which will turn off his desire to be liked and accepted. Perhaps he should do exercises, something like spiritual sit-ups, in order to strengthen his resolve, the better to become self-reliant and at last be freed from the futility of hope and the vanity of vanity.

If his folly is inborn, a part of his nature, he finds himself reasoning, then is it possible to change his nature? If a leopard can’t help being born with his spots, can he nevertheless find a way to peel them off, especially if they prove to be spiritually carcinomic? Our hero’s mind dashes to thoughts of a more radical cure than he’d previously entertained. Perhaps self-slaughter? Perhaps self-emasculation? Surely there is some way to target the root of the infernal problem, whether that root be lodged in the loins, the mind, the heart, or consciousness itself…Anything would be better than to continue in such a grim orbit around ephemeral vacuities, never even approaching his desired destination, stuck in miserable stasis.

The violence he has long felt towards the outside world, while in so sense mitigated in intensity, thus gets redirected inward. The alienated soul finds himself not just alienated from the modern world, but from himself. Both the interior and the exterior are in need of authoritative alteration, he concludes, but as with some interpretations of Islam, the inner-directed jihadnow presents itself as the more essential one. Indeed, he senses the urgency with greater and greater bouts of ferocious delirium: Something must be launched into the very core of his being—a focused attack on that within himself which for so long has festered, working to undermine his resolution.

He thinks of Panic, the disarmingly mordant ironic 80s anthem of social upheaval and defiance by The Smiths. In that song, the disaffected speaker (Morrissey, natch) encourages open attack against the media establishment, specifically with reference to the purveyors of popular music. “Burn down the disco!” he commands us, adding that we should “Hang the blessed DJ, ’cuz the music that they constantly play…says nothing to me about my life.”

All of what the great Morrissey speaks of here is true, without a doubt. His critique is perpetually relevant, no less so today than it was thirty years ago. Our rulers hold us at a distance, exploit us unmercifully before shoving us into the grave at a time of their convenience, even as they shamelessly keep us mesmerized in the interim with baubles, bread, and circuses. If we are men, we cannot—must not—tolerate such a state of affairs.

But it is not enough to burn down the (proverbial) disco or to let the (metaphorical) DJ dangle. We must also grapple with what makes us so uniquely vulnerable to such manipulation. Find it, seize upon it, slaughter it mercilessly. Hang the inner DJ, and burn down the disco in our soul.

The Engelman controversy has been interesting. Not since watching Busby Berkeley’s Babes on Broadway (1941) have I seen so many knees jerk in unison. The hatred of Engelman, a poor soul who is driven to live his life on comment boards, is clearly palpable, like an open wound or a grisly, throbbing case of butt hurt.